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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737501">Go Home, Clay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Sad Ending, i think</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:26:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>654</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>George’s birthday in a random bar in London</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Go Home, Clay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He knew it was a bad idea to start with, but that had never stopped him before. So as he sat himself down at the bar and ordered the first round of shots for himself, he let the burning alcohol flushing down his throat to take any worries he had away.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Careless, floating. That’s how he wanted to feel. And he was going to succeed - he always had to succeed. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Around 4 shots in, Clay started to feel his head growing fuzzier. It’s as though he could feel the heat of the alcohol burning though his veins, finally letting him fucking feel, after months upon months of relentlessly numbing cold. This heat - this fire - was something he craved. He decided to take a break from the alcohol for a short while, taking advantage of his tipsy state of mind. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He missed Florida - that’s the first thing that came to his mind. The clubs just weren’t as good. Instead, he’d opted for a classically British pub so get ‘smashed’, as the locals would call it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clay felt himself become growingly disgusted at the groups of content friends crowded against each other, in booths, stood next to tables, even fucking leaning next to him on the bar. Smiles adorning their faces. Laughs echoing through the air. The feeling of sick swelling in Clay’s stomach. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turned back and stared at the surface of the bar in front of him, attempting to ground himself by trying to make sense of the vague reflection in the slightly shiny wood. He wouldn’t admit it then, but that’s the first time he started tearing up that night. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">5, 6, 7 shots deep. There was no going back now. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Truth be told, Clay had tried to convince himself that he completely spontaneously wanted to go out and get drunk. On the first of November. In a local London bar. Subconsciously, however, he knew his ulterior motive. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That’s why, although his heart fluttered at the sight and his eyes practically flew out of their sockets at the sight of George walking in, he wasn’t surprised. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">George, and his own group of disgustingly happy people. Celebrating his birthday. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clay’s eyes stayed pinned to the small group of people weaving their way to a somehow still-free booth, staying well enough hidden by the other crowds of people surrounding him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He watched from afar; the way George smiled, how he fidgeted, how he sat, how he ended up taking his jacket off after a few drinks because he always got warm when drinking. All the things Clay knew so well that just weren’t his to know anymore. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then he heard George laugh. Just for a moment, the whole world became silenced as the soundwaves bee-lined to his ears, cutting through all other noise and hearing the sound of contentment for the first time in 5 months. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That laugh. Clay used to be the cause of that laugh, those shy giggles, the blush that crept onto his cheeks. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Used to be. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was getting too much for him. The happiness that radiated from the brunet across the room, the jealousy he felt, the arm that was draped across his shoulder? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Who the fuck?</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Confusion overwhelmed him. Anger. Jealousy. He didn’t even fucking know anymore. Mind too clouded from the alcohol, he stood up. He had every right to go over there and give George a piece of his mind. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he didn’t. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sat back down on the barstool below him, gazing off at nothing in particular in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Go home, Clay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He should’ve known it was pointless to travel to London for George’s birthday. It was pointless to think he could walk up to George and beg for forgiveness, for a second chance. It was pointless that even if he did beg, George would actually say yes. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Go home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clay looked up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, um, Bartender? Can you call a cab for me please?” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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